


Slow it down and come back to bed

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bad Sex, Because that's what happens to human relationships, Break Up, Depression, Dogs, Domesticity, Established Relationship, Fluff, Good Sex, Grantaire is just giving birth to non existent problems, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage, Pretentious Writing, Puppies, Reconciliation, Reconciliation Sex, Routine, Stupid Husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 04:09:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1764901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Was I late?” he asks, and they both know that what he’s really asking is “were you able to make it on your own until I came?” Grantaire is more than grateful that Enjolras doesn’t make him feel worse by asking a normal “are you okay?”<br/>“I brought takeaway”. A couple of years ago he’d use to say “you don’t have to cook for us every day I will try to cook myself and maybe blow up the entire apartment or maybe I could bring us takeaway every day and raise our cholesterol levels until Joly would have me grounded”. Now it’s simply another way to say “you don’t have to cook. I know you don’t feel like it.” And Grantaire likes this level they’ve reached of understanding each other with not many words, having formed a secret code between them that makes everything flow easier than it already is.<br/>Sometimes Grantaire can feel the time slipping through their fingers.</p><p>Some others, small fractions of eternity seem just too hard to achieve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow it down and come back to bed

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I'm sorry about this fic which made me cry a lot while writing it because this sort of anxiety is in my opinion one of the most realistic and painful problems a couple can be challenged with, the fear of their life changing and of each other changing and the obstacles they may face in order to achieve the "forever" so please bear with me. Also the puppy is complete self insertion because MY LIFE EVOLVES AROUND MY PUPPY THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO TO CHANGE THAT. There is probably going to be continuation to this story, I really hope it isn't horrible and it doesn't make you feel bad.  
> Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome.

_4:32_

They always ticked painfully slowly on the clock, the moments to 5. One after the other, Grantaire counted them like those of a prisoner. He always counted them, in the kitchen, preparing a treat that would always grant him with the glowing surprise on Enjolras’ face or in the living room, after having taken half an hour to make himself presentable in the bathroom, making an attempt to tame his wild locks and brushing his teeth, changing in a clean t-shirt and, in the most motivated of his days, even taking another shower, because his boyfriend would come home in twenty eight minutes approximately and what if he saw him scruffy and smelly and gross and change his mind, twenty eight minutes only god is there time to shave?

_Twenty seven_

_Twenty six_

_Twenty four minutes…_

_His boyfriend._ How odd it sounded.

There were the times when he’d wait in their bedroom, counting every second with his heart thrumming wildly in his chest, clad in only his boxers, exposing his toned chest and abdomen with all the mischief of the world in his eyes yet, deep inside he’d be so anxious as to vomit, like a teenager getting prepared for his first date. He’d wander around in his boxers, later completely naked, deliberately sporting the most lustful expression and the most provoking positions on the bed – _their_ bed – so that when the clock would tick 5:01 and Enjolras would enter the room he wouldn’t even care to take off his red Converse that always somehow accompanied his smart blazer, he wouldn’t even undo his tie.

_Sometimes Grantaire would, and they’d tie it again._

_On the bed. On his wrists, which he’d scatter with kisses, breathing all kinds of prayers on the silk of his sensitive skin._

_Fourteen minutes_

_Thirteen_

Most of the time Enjolras would have to work so they’d have lunch with Enjolras checking his mails and then his lover would curl like a cat on his favorite corner of the couch, his laptop on his knees and hundreds of books and papers around him, where he’d sip one coffee after the other and work until the early hours of morning. Sometimes Grantaire would get the motivation to paint and the biggest privilege was for Enjolras to take a break from his work just to walk to the other room, his bare feet thumping on his floor, and smile at Grantaire proudly. They’d always end up breathing heavily against the wall tasting all the different colors that stained each other’s skin until they’d stumble and fall on the newspapers, a mass of tangled limbs and pounding hearts, fucking and getting fucked until they got dizzy, until there was nothing in the world but newspapers and colors and the sweat on their skin, the revolution on their lips…

And then Grantaire would remember of Enjolras’ work, and Enjolras would lie there in Grantaire’s strong arms and sigh “five more minutes.”

_Eleven, ten_

Then there were the times, when Enjolras would return positively knackered from work and Grantaire would already know from the nature of their texts, and the tub would be ready with lukewarm water and all those pretentious bath salts Jehan had brought them, Grantaire would expect him in the bathroom and make him sit down, kiss his temple, kiss his prominent cheekbones, his tensed jaw and red lips, he’d gently undress him and knead his fingers deep into the aching muscles of his shoulders, he’d help him slip in the tub and then follow suit and they’d lie in there until their fingers would go all wrinkled and the water would go cold, and still one of them would have fallen asleep on the other and they’d eventually step out like groggy, sleepy children in a summer afternoon and wrap each other in fluffy white towels where they’d sit until Enjolras’ breath would even out on his lap, and Grantaire would lift the Sleeping Beauty with no much effort and carry him at their bed where he’d spend the evening watching him snore lightly, his chest ready to explode with adoration as the man slept peacefully, the white towel slipping off his alabaster shoulders, his halo of curls spread on the pillow like golden rain.

He could lie like that for hours, listening to his lover’s heart and stare at him in the dark of the room, his skin illuminated by the moonlight peeking through the window, the stars that were jealous of his partner. It was like a fairytale that couldn’t be happening, and Grantaire could lie there for hours, for nights, for whole centuries.

_Eight minutes_

_Seven_

All the other times Enjolras would return to bed when he’d finished his work to find Grantaire already sleeping, so he’d climb under the covers and slip through his lover’s arms and rest his head on the crook of his neck, inhaling in his deep scent of paint, alcohol and oranges. It smelt like home and Enjolras had learnt to accept every obstacle that was posed in their ways. It was Grantaire and he’d grown to love him slowly, then a vast explosion of color, all the different shades and all the different things he’d hated in the past. He’d embraced them and steadily, like the minutes that slipped from their fingers one after the other, made them his life.

_Six_

_Five_

Five minutes to seven Enjolras would wake up and blindly punch the alarm to prevent the sound from waking Grantaire, doing it himself anyway. He would get ready quietly yet Grantaire would always peek and pretend to be asleep, watching him pick a shirt, cranky and stumbling like an adorable sleepy kitten, run his fingers through his hair and brush his teeth. He’d smell like cologne and summer and freedom every time he came to press a featherweight kiss on Grantaire’s brow, and Grantaire would always pretend he was asleep, a serene smile tugging on his face until he’d hear the door of the apartment slamming shut.

_Three_

_Two_

Sometimes the clock would tick and Enjolras wouldn’t show up on time. Grantaire’s heart revolted as the worse possible thoughts crossed his mind, murdering him slowly, fear crippling on his fingers and cold sweat breaking on his neck. He’d never call or text, he didn’t dare to press his partner, to show any sign of possessiveness, yet his mind wouldn’t cease to work on the most terrifying scenarios, he’d fidget with a thread on his shirt, he’d try to paint but in vain, he’d walk up and down the apartment trying not to smash his head against the wall. Grantaire hated, he hated every sentiment of insecurity that fiddled with his sanity.

And the he’d hear the key at the lock.

_One_

One day Enjolras was late, impossibly late. One minute ticked after the other and Grantaire was steadily going insane. He’d passed the barriers and called, once, twice. He’d texted him trying not to show how desperate he was. Hours. One, then another. Grantaire was miserable.

Grantaire drank.

And then he heard the key at the lock and he immediately ran to the door, mad with rage and worry.

There stood Enjolras with a hundred red roses in his arms, always dramatic. Grantaire was speechless, incredulous. And there, before his shocked eyes, his lover fell on one knee, his cheeks flustered like those of a child, _innocent, young, full of hope._ He held his hand, warm and clammy and Grantaire burst into tears. He held him as he cried, breathing _yes_ all over Enjolras’ face, his neck, his beloved hands, everywhere, and they held each other until they exploded again and again like they always used to do.

Young. Infatuated. The only thing that they could breathe was _forever._

*

The clock ticks 5:04 and every second that passes feels like forever. He hears the key at the lock and he counts Enjolras’ steps as he knows them, one after the other. He doesn’t have the strength to raise his head from the couch, not today, but his husband comes around and finds him lying in the living room in the same stinky sweats and t-shirt he’s been wearing for days, unable to paint, unable to work, just the way it happens sometimes. He can see, _feel_ the frown on Enjolras’ brow at the scent of alcohol and cigarettes as the blond man bends down to press a kiss on Grantaire’s cheek.

“Was I late?” he asks, and they both know that what he’s really asking is “were you able to make it on your own until I came?” Grantaire is more than grateful that he doesn’t make him feel worse by asking a normal “are you okay?” Also “I brought takeaway”. A couple of years ago he’d use to say “you don’t have to cook for us every day I will try to cook myself and maybe blow up the entire apartment or maybe I could bring us takeaway every day and raise our cholesterol levels until Joly would have me grounded”. Now it’s simply another way to say “you don’t have to cook. I know you don’t feel like it.” And Grantaire likes this level they’ve reached of understanding each other with not many words, having formed a secret code between them that makes everything flow easier than it already is.

He thanks him and eases himself in his arms. Enjolras looks positively knackered. He only slips off his dress jacket and loosens his tie, wrapping himself around Grantaire’s curled figure, still in his crisp white shirt. He smells of cologne and comfort and Grantaire clings on him, eternally grateful that he has him when those days happen, that he doesn’t have to deal with them on his own anymore.

He’d never truly believed that anything would change just because Enjolras loved him. Of course, his whole world was lit and he found a purpose to try but, he’d never let himself be fooled that his own demons would stop messing with his mind, that the nights would completely cease to be dark and that he wouldn’t need to drink himself into oblivion. Still, he could only be grateful to have someone hold his hair back when he emptied the contents of his stomach in the toilet, to have someone to kiss him goodnight when the room was dark and to give him a hand to stand up when everything else was collapsing, someone to believe in and someone who _believed in him_ , who’d cup his face in his hands and whisper _you’re strong, you’re beautiful, you’re loved._ To have the man he’d loved more than anything else in the world.

“Do you know what, I’m not going to work tonight,” mutters Enjolras in his hair. “We can have a quiet night in. I’m gonna bring the food, you just pick a movie, okay?” and Grantaire raises his eyes at him with muted adoration, unable to feel more thankful than he currently does, and they watch their old favorites again and again curled up on the couch, never focusing on the movie but on the steady pace of the other’s breathing instead and on the calming, blue light of the TV as it reflects in the dark living room. It’s exactly what Grantaire needs, it’s even more than that.

When he raises his eyes to catch Enjolras’ glowing gaze, bluer than every TV light in the world, it crosses Grantaire’s mind that they used to be young once.

And then Enjolras kisses him.

It is nothing like the first times, when they’d stumble their way into a room and throw each other on the mattress like desperate, excited teenagers, all tongues and teeth and wandering hands that burnt like fire. It’s slow and natural instead, beautiful and easier than breathing. Enjolras’ lips capture his own and dance the well-rehearsed steps together, every time still warmer than the previous one even after all this time. It’s comfortable in Enjolras’ arms, he’s at home, safe and sure. They don’t need to leave the couch as his fingers reach for the buttons on Enjolras’ shirt, undoing them deftly, thankful they're not shaking like the first time he’d caused Enjolras to moan and gasp and beg to be released by his clothes. After all, they took good care to christen every possible surface when they took the apartment, passionate and erratic. This couch has taken them many times, and they’ve taken each other exchanging a _forever_ with each breath that they swallowed from each other’s lips.

He knows every sigh that escapes Enjolras’ lips like a precious mantra, his fingers and his lips know his body like a map, every hollow and every curve, every way he needs to move in order to feel him writhe and quiver beneath him, to sense him twitching against his touch and shudder at his mouth, he knows every sensitive spot that Enjolras begs to be touched, the way it fits with his own as to forget where the frontiers of the one’s being begin and those of the other end.

He takes a moment to appreciate the perfection that lays beneath him, he always does. He remembers the first time he got to see him naked, the ferocious revolution of his heart trying to hammer its way out of his chest, the way his breath had caught at the sight of his marble skin gaining life under his trembling touch, the way Enjolras shut his eyes and moaned in ecstasy because of _him_ and of all the things he did. Grantaire needed to stare and never defile his God with his touch, he needed to stare just for a minute, for an eternity and then another, to suck in every curve of his thighs and every bone on his hips, every tiny freckle on his shoulders and every line of his lithe wrists and elegant, almost feminine feet. But then his God begged to be touched and beneath his tongue he became more human than ever before, a whole new world of liberty and light bursting before their very eyes as they moved inside each other and held on tight forever.

He kisses every beloved spot, inhales every rich, luxurious spice of his body again and again in the way he’s learnt. His hands come to rest on Enjolras’ hips and squeeze just with the right amount of pressure that his partner likes, just to elicit that precious throaty moan before he parts his folds and starts teasing him, earning a gasp as his whole body twitches in his arms. And then Enjolras regains his composure just for a second, breathing raggedly and slides a hand between their bodies to take Grantaire in his hand, now experienced, almost masterful.

He can feel himself throbbing with need and anticipation as Enjolras strokes him deftly and he continues to work him open with remarkable ease. A husky sigh escapes his mouth after the other and he muffles them in the crook of his lover’s neck. It’s Enjolras who’s always louder, and he cries his name as Grantaire enters him. For a moment they both lie still, holding their erratic breath, feeling each other in their entirety, closer and deeper than the air they breathe, embracing the fire that’s burning in their pounding chests.

Grantaire starts with small thrusts, picking up a pace as he slides in and out of him, pressing their bodies together to memorize every groan and every sigh that fall from his parted lips, every cry and debauched moan that Enjolras breathes, his head of cold thrown back from the arm of the couch, exposing the sweaty swan curve of his throat on which Grantaire kisses marks of blood and wine. His limbs are already shaking and his head is going light, dizzy. He’s unable to control himself anymore as he loses every sense of rhythm and just thrusts inside his lover, deeper and fiercer than what freedom tastes like.

He fills him up with a choked groan and Enjolras finishes shortly after, crying his name. They collapse on the couch which they’ll probably need to clean later, but right now they can’t think of that. They press their damp bodies together, an entanglement of limbs and sweat and wild curls, feeling the symphony of their heartbeats through the incorrigible mass that is them.

“I love you,” breathes Enjolras upon his sweaty skin and it’s tender and true. Grantaire knows every way in which Enjolras says it, every note in his voice and every climax of his breath, the sweetness and the fierceness and the dozens of fire that burn together.

“I love you too,” he murmurs, but Enjolras is already asleep.

*

Sometimes Grantaire can feel the time slipping through their fingers.

Some others, small fractions of eternity seem just too hard to achieve.

He’s afraid, he’s so afraid because there are so many years ahead of them, so many changes to come in their lives, so many things to say and to do yet there are those mornings when he can’t get out of bed and, even worse, there are those nights when the minutes don’t pass and he can’t fall asleep.

It doesn’t always make sense. It was too good to be true and fairytales don’t happen. Grantaire can’t always understand, can’t always cope with it because it gets hard though it really shouldn’t.

He feels useless. His life is going and going yet he can’t follow and he does nothing to stop it, he does nothing to make him feel important, to make him feel _enough._ He hates the word _potential_ when Enjolras uses it. Instead he thinks the word _wasted,_ or _a spare_ is more fitting.

Yet Enjolras won’t hear of it and sometimes all that Grantaire needs is someone to _agree,_ someone to be _honest_ with him _._ His husband and his friends have always tried to convince him of things that are not true and even though he used to get drunk on their lies before it has stopped helping him long ago.

He gets that twisted feeling in his stomach because they’ve grown up, they’re different than they used to be and memories stomp on his chest until he can’t breathe anymore. He hates the way his heart is almost used to the sound of Enjolras’ key on the door when he returns. He thought he would never happen, he thought he would get those stupid butterflies every morning when their eyes would meet on bed, every evening when they’d see each other walk dripping and naked out of the bathroom. Grantaire has always despised the unsafety of change and he’s so afraid that the fire burning in his soul is lost somewhere in the rain that falls dully on the window pane. They were so young and lively, Enjolras was a God, they both were. Now Enjolras is human, the most perfect and stunning human on Earth yet Grantaire absolutely loathes the way he is used to his beauty, the way he quietly loves and appreciates it, the blurry significance that beauty in its whole has taken that messes so terribly with his mind and leaves him breathless and sick.

Enjolras is human. As for Grantaire himself, he doesn’t know what he is.

He doesn’t even want to think about it.

_Useless_

_Ungrateful_

Enjolras opens his bleary eyes and stretches his body on the mattress. He brings a finger to brush a stray curl off Grantaire’s face. He’s beautiful in the morning, so beautiful that Grantaire’s soul aches.

“Is anything wrong?” he murmurs in a sleepy voice.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Grantaire whispers, his throat feeling dry. “Everything’s okay.”

“Of course it is,” hums Enjolras with a small smile, and goes back to sleep.

Grantaire is disgusted with himself.

*

Grantaire hears the key at the lock.

This time he also hears something else.

It’s a muffled cry, a small scratch, an incorrigible sound that Grantaire can’t quite understand. Before he’s able to wash his hands from the paint and walk to the living room, Enjolras has already reached the end of the corridor. He’s holding a big cardboard box in his hands and he looks relatively out of his depth, yet he cracks a nervous smile before saying “congratulations for your gallery opening.”

Grantaire is really thankful but something is quite off, he can’t really tell because Enjolras already congratulated him a dozen of times, so did the rest of their friends, and they opened a bottle of champagne last night at Jehan’s. Even Enjolras drank. And now, what’s in this box?

Without saying a single word Enjolras answers to his question, lowering the suspicious box on the floor and opening before carefully stepping behind.

Grantaire’s breath catches on his throat.

It’s a dog. The most beautiful, precious little creature in the world, staring at them with huge sad black eyes that can hug the universe, his long, brown ears hanging on the sides of his face.

“It’s a beagle,” Enjolras says proudly still looking at the box cautiously.

“But… but…” gasps Grantaire, never taking his eyes from him – or her. “You’re afraid of dogs!”

“I am,” Enjolras doesn’t deny it. Grantaire will never forget how much he’d loved when he first saw the fierce deliverer of freedom let a small squeak and hide behind his back when they met Bahorel’s Exterminator (a Chihuahua), or how he didn’t talk to Combeferre for over a week when he adopted a Cocker Spaniel and later, Eponine’s wolf hound, because he wouldn’t be able to visit his best friend’s place anymore. Everyone had weaknesses and Enjolras’, apparently, was canines. Cynophobia wasn’t something to laugh at so Grantaire never did again, neither did he ever suggest they’d get a pet, no matter how much he secretly wished for one.

“They brought her at Joly’s clinic,” Enjolras continues. “She was in desperate need of a home. Bossuet choked on his coffee when I told them we wanted her.” He smiles faintly. “Consider her a Congratulations gift. Jehan’s therapist told him it helps, you know,” he bites his lower lip a bit nervously. “With depression and everything.”

Grantaire is, for once in his life, rendered completely speechless. His world lights up, his insides going all warm and fuzzy as he bends over the box and gently picks her up in his arms. She stares at him with wide open eyes, scared and quiet, letting a tiny cry. He holds the puppy against his chest, feeling her little heart tremble, and he falls in love at first sight. “Do you want to hold her?” he raises his eyes at Enjolras, who’s standing at safety distance.

“Nah, not really,” mutters his husband, trying to play it cool and, before he knows it, tears are swelling on Grantaire’s eyes.

“Oh my God,” he breathes, considering the amount of the sacrifice Enjolras is doing for him. “Oh my God you’re perfect, I love you so much,” tears soon evolve to ugly sobs which he can’t control and he can’t even feel ashamed of, “I love you, Apollo, and I don’t deserve you…”

Enjolras tries to throw an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders without getting too close to the puppy. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he mutters. “Of course you deserve me, R. I love you very much.”

The dog is trying to smell Enjolras’ shirt and the more he can do is stand still and hold his breath, before laying out a shaky hand to pat her head and Grantaire’s tears dissolve into happy laughter. “She needs a name, doesn’t she?”

Enjolras’ face lights up. “What about Patria?”

The eyebrow that Grantaire raises is more than expected. “Seriously. You’ll name the dog Patria. You do realize that patriotism is quite frowned upon in modern day Europe when people are terrified of all the neonazist parties taking up again, right?”

Enjolras throws him a murderous look and it’s like it had always been again, bickering for the most trivial of things and rolling their eyes at each other before they throw themselves in each other’s arms and kiss. “What do you suggest then?”

“I don’t know, I was thinking of naming her after Janis Joplin.”

“Yeah now _that’s_ a dog name.”

“Any _other_ suggestions you could care to share?”

“What about Marianne?”

Grantaire goes silent for a minute before the puppy starts licking his hand with her pink tongue. A small smile appears on his lips. “Marianne sounds good,” he eventually says.

*

Their lives completely change and Grantaire does his best to make living in the same house with a dog easy for Enjolras. He takes the whole responsibility of her care which gives him motivation and makes Enjolras happy as stares from a distance, and he makes sure that she doesn’t go near him a lot (Enjolras starts walking around in long sweats and socks so that she can’t reach his feet). Poor Enjolras looks relatively relieved at first when they think she behaves well and is quiet and cute, but as the days pass she starts barking (causing him to jump to the ceiling the first time it happens) and jumping all around the apartment, biting everything – and everyone of their excited friends who come to meet her – she can reach. “She’s teething,” Grantaire coos as he plays with her, jumping around in the living room, in Enjolras’ horror, throwing over chairs and pulling books off her murderous jaws. She soon ends up running over Grantaire’s colors while he paints, her tiny feet staining the wooden floors of the apartment with red and blue and pink and yellow and Enjolras looks almost ready to get an apoplexy but he’s good, _so_ good because all he says is “I’m so glad I finally see you happy, you’re going to do great,” and he sounds a bit broken behind his smile, as if he doesn’t consider himself _enough_ to make Grantaire happy and that’s just so wrong…

It’s true, however, that Marianne fills Grantaire’s day in the most wonderful – and exhausting – of ways and makes him feel useful and loved as she falls asleep on his lap or wags her tail when he gets at home and jumps on his jeans to play. She’s a very active happy dog and jumps around with her tongue hanging off her mouth, growling aggressively at her ball or running in the park, leading Grantaire when he walks her out. She’s completely adorable, tilting her head a bit on the side almost with a puzzled expression, staring at them while they kiss on the couch and Grantaire is almost sure – _hopeful_ – that she’ll soon enough learn not to pee in front of Enjolras’ desk.

*

There is never enough time. He knows there isn’t. He sees Enjolras going through a hard period in work and hardly even managing to return home, let alone get enough sleep and he wishes he could help but he knows he can’t. Enjolras has been a bit absent lately, and not just in the literal sense of the word. Grantaire watches him wear himself and worry to the point of panic and collapse in bed exhausted in the middle of the night, yet he doesn’t have the strength to interfere and he’s been taught long ago that if Enjolras is going through a period when he’s determined to get something done even if it means working himself to death, there’s nothing he can – or is allowed to do – about it. It’s been enough years for him to know, enough years of him trying hard to make it easier for the other man but there’s nothing he would change about him, nothing he didn’t fall in love with, so he admits defeat and steps back, making the best he can do to provide Enjolras with what he’ll need, like ready meals and a warm embrace when he eventually decides to take a break, keeping the dog off his feet, a relaxing bath every now and then and constant contact with Combeferre just to let him know what is happening and have his support in return.

It’s been so long, that’s true, and sometimes Grantaire feels cold sweat breaking on his brow and a numbing sensation crippling on his toes and fingers, because he’s never done this before, hell, he’s never done a relationship that lasted more than a year in the past, let alone five – _let alone forever –_ and all that he can do is keep asking isn’t that what you need? Isn’t that what you’ve always needed? And all he can say is yes, yes of course, a thousand times yes, simply and instinctively because he’s never loved more in his whole life which began in first place when he first lay his eyes upon Enjolras, as if it had been his destiny to see the light in his future husband’s eyes, a blind man suffocating in darkness, now being suffocated by love, so immense and true, so painful and intoxicating, and Grantaire had never dared to think that he could have Enjolras all of his own, not even for a second let alone a lifetime. And now here he is, doubting himself because he’s simply never accomplished that, there would always been something to fuck up, something to be useless at, to be disgusting and wrong, always wrong, to push people away and now he hated himself because Enjolras didn’t deserve that, Enjolras deserved much more and how did Enjolras end up stuck with him _how –_ and his head is throbbing violently, making it impossible to allow him to think. So he drinks. That’s what he does when he can’t think, that’s what he’s good at. Not love, not even that. He’s shit, he’s a shit boyfriend, a shit husband, an honest-to-God shit person to spend your life with when you’re talented and gorgeous and clever, working to change the world, returning home every day in a fancy suit and tie after dining out with several important people, Enjolras deserves more and, even after all this time – _especially_ after all this time, now sobered up from the drunken ecstasy of the beginning – Grantaire feels guilty and ugly and _shit._

Sometimes all he can do is sit down on the couch and replay every moment in his head like short video spots that make his heart skip a beat, as if he’s the main character gripping on a huge replay button, reliving every little thing again and again. Enjolras’ blazing gaze is meeting his own over the tables of the café for the first time and his world stops. Words of steel piercing through him like daggers. He’s drunk, so drunk but then he isn’t because nothing of that matters and nothing makes sense, it’s only him and Enjolras, never stammering apologies but grabbing each other’s face and clashing their lips together while their friends pay their bets and sigh condescendingly. There’s brief close ups of them, months after that, laughing about Enjolras’ pining – _pining_ – while the lot of them sit in someone’s living room, Enjolras’ arm wrapped around his shoulders, as if holding his heart safely back from exploding. He remembers the pain of insecurity every time he’d see his new boyfriend, as if the word was ever to feel believable, get approached by another charmed woman or man, he remembers feeling sick to his stomach and willing to curl in a ball and die every time they fought and a wave of nostalgia fills his head and it’s dark and depressing, he doesn’t want the routine, he doesn’t _believe_ in routine and it’s making him sick, maybe if he grabbed Enjolras and the dog and ran away, forgot everything about their lives here, just the two of them sleeping and making love all day like the first time they’d gone on holidays together, maybe if… ugh.

He misses all of it. He misses their old selves, the excitement of the first days, months, forevers, he doesn’t really remember now and it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he has been happy, he _had_ been happy even though he never thought he would again and it was so immense a feeling to bear. For so long, or maybe for a blink of his eye he had _believed_ and as he looks back to that, Grantaire is for once in his life begging to be able to believe again but he can’t, and Enjolras is not to blame for that, not perfect, loving, caring Enjolras who gave him everything and even more, no. Grantaire should have known he’d end up like this. He’d never needed someone to save him while he couldn’t even dream of saving himself. What if he’d regained some old funny confidence when he found out about his ability to seduce Enjolras until he’d blushed like the little precious dandelion that he was, what if having the words beautiful and _yes_ breathed on his skin gave him wings to fly to the fucking moon and back, what if being held and told he was loved until the world would magically endmade the very world actually _begin_ inside him?

Grantaire remembers the first time it happened. He remembers strong arms being wrapped around him, telling him it’s okay to cry, breathing that he’s strong on his cheeks, in his hair, on the small tattoo behind his earlobe, holding him until it wouldn’t hurt anymore, making all the guilt and shame dissolve like poison being sucked out of his system. It’s not the same right now. He looks at himself in the mirror and he knows that it’s not working anymore, it will never work and he can’t make it because he now knows he’ll never change and no one can tell him otherwise, no one can even tell him ‘it’s ok, don’t change’ because he knows that’s not the truth. For once after all these years, Grantaire thinks he might not make it, and he’s afraid.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for your time, if you reached this point. It really means a hella lot to me! I'm working on the continuation of this story as well as on the one of my other WIP.


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